The Never Never Sisters

by L. Alison Heller

  Dave shrugged and said something under his breath about not being worried; it would all work out just fine.

  “I still don’t get it.” Only Irene met my eyes.

  “Partnership. Of course, it will work out fine—it will.” Irene said this primarily to the plate of meatballs before spearing another.

  I didn’t make a scene, just smiled tightly and looked past Dave’s pleading eyes at the couple at the table behind us. The man was talking animatedly, and the woman nodded at him in utter agreement as they tore off hunks of bread and dabbed them in their bowls to sop up the extra sauce. Apparently their table had no problems at all with the gravy.

  Dave spilled it all during the cab ride home. Apparently, he’d been up for partner that year. Herb had been assuring him for four years that he was a shoo-in. About a month before the committee made everything official, though, Herb had taken him aside and told him that it wasn’t Dave’s year. The department’s numbers were bad and they needed a sacrifice. He had to think long term: Everyone would notice that Dave was the kind of guy who would take one for the team. They would reward his loyalty and patience if he could just have a little faith.

  I could barely compute what he was saying. “Who,” I finally asked when we got home, “doesn’t tell his fiancée that he’s up for partner?” I screamed it so loudly that I heard the words reverberate through our apartment, bouncing off our walls and broadcasting through the space under the front door. For several months afterward I was embarrassed to see my neighbors in the elevator.

  Dave said nothing. He stood there in the hall, sad and guilty, as if he’d been as helpless in creating this moment as he was to stop it.

  I slipped off my engagement ring, left the apartment and walked two miles down to Penn Station. My parents, wrapped in robes in the front seat of their station wagon, met me at the other end. Even though it was past midnight, they drove me straight to Walmart to buy underwear and a toothbrush.

  Dave rented a car and drove out to New Jersey every day for a week. He had been so nervous about partnership that he didn’t want to speak about it out loud, he explained. He’d pictured dropping the announcement at my feet like a puppy with a newspaper and was beyond embarrassed when he had failed. Maybe, he admitted, he had planned the dinner as a passive way to come clean. When Irene Blakesey blurted it out, he’d felt only relief.

  “It’s so uneven,” I said. “I tell you everything. And I’m not really looking to have a master-puppy kind of dynamic with my future husband.”

  We wouldn’t, he swore. And we didn’t; I knew we didn’t. He begged me to be patient with him. He told me his childhood fears and insecurities that week: his mediocre fourth grade IQ score his mother had carelessly left out on the kitchen table, not quite high enough for the gifted program; the football team he didn’t make; the junior high school bully who targeted him by waiting at the water fountain and slamming his face in the spigot and the horrible things his father had said when Dave came home with a gash above his eye.

  He was raised, Dave explained, to expect that other people laughed at your failures. It broke my heart, both the fact of it and how fundamentally I understood him.

  The following year, when he did make partner, Dave told me all about it: the little snippets of gossip, the passing encouragements from near strangers, the thirdhand reports of what happened in the committee meetings, the promises from Herb. In truth, it was a little too much detail; I could have handled a summary or two, but I was grateful for the opportunity to listen, to model a little unconditional love and support.

  I told him it didn’t matter what happened. I only wanted him to make partner, I promised him, because it was so important to him.

  What an idiot I’d been, taking off my ring and storming out of the house, so ready to throw away my future with Dave. All it had taken to get past the shock was listening for one moment.

  chapter four

  THE WONDERFUL, WARM, liquid-muscle feeling from my early-evening workout disappeared about five minutes into our family dinner. I felt it leave my body, floating away like a spirit as my father slathered butter on his bread. My dad and I were alone at the table with the chafing silence that accompanies him to all social gatherings when he cleared his throat in that middle-aged man way: sputtering car ignition.

  He grabbed another roll. “You’d think I’d have enough influence to spring Dave from the office.”

  “He’s usually stuck working for those clients who aren’t, you know, family.” Our tired tones would have let any eavesdropper know we’d had this exchange many times before.

  “I don’t know why he even needs those others. You’d think the guy was ambitious or something.”

  I aped my dad’s smile—half of my mouth pushed up—and lifted my glass. I was a little worried that Dave had gotten lost in our apartment. The real estate agent hadn’t divulged that there was a Bermuda Triangle between his office/guest room, the couch and the bathroom, but there had to be one. It was the only explanation for his not having picked up or responded to even one of my four telephone calls throughout the day.

  My dad continued the butter slathering and I sifted through e-mail on my phone until my mom’s voice floated over to our table from the front door of the restaurant. I could guess what she was doing without even turning around: sweeping in; kissing Mario, the maître d’, on both cheeks and asking about his new granddaughter by name in a way that would make Mario feel warm and special; assessing the antipasto table and commenting to whoever was stationed behind it about how something—the sardines, the eggplant—looked delicious.

  When I smelled tuberose and powder behind me and felt her lips graze my hair, I was relieved—I was sure our table was more desperate for her stream of conversation than Mario would ever be. She eased into her seat, which was pulled out by my father in one fluid move, and paused. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “I wonder.” She leaned in close. “Maybe, with that dress—I don’t know, a strapless bra? I feel like it would be so empowering to stand against wearing that lady-of-the-night look. Be strong! Just say no to showing your undergarments at dinner.”

  My dad and I responded to the comment solely with our eyes: his were averted as though he’d accidentally found himself in the women’s dressing room and mine were rolled. Still, I subtly patted my twisted bra straps into submission under my sundress. My dad reached out for another roll, but my mom beat him to it, catching his outstretched hand.

  “Frankie.” She shook her head slightly and removed the butter knife from his hands. “Enough.” She sat back, exhausted from the effort of corralling us, and smiled her appreciation at Mario, who had brought her a seltzer and cranberry juice without being asked. He had put it in a wineglass, and if I squinted, it looked like a watered-down Shiraz with a lime plopped in it.

  “The usual for everyone?” My mom glanced around the table, and we nodded. I ordered the ravioli special for Dave, and Mario winked an of course before sweeping off. My mom lifted her drink and pointed it to the empty chair next to me. “And where is the Boy?”

  The Boy—that’s what she had called Dave since I first brought him home, like he was the missing piece: he replenished the number of family members back up to four; he had the whole good job/steady/responsible/respectful thing down; and, most important, he was a “bootstrapper.” Dave, just like my mom, had taken on the power of his own catapult, journeying from nothing to something.

  “Dave’s working late,” my dad explained.

  My mom nodded her approval. It was “very bootstrappy” to work late. “When do we expect him?”

  “Soon.” They looked at each other and then at me. “What?”

  “Tell her.” My dad picked up his butter knife again before putting it down.

  She mashed her lips together as though blotting lipstick. “Later.”
r />   “What? Just tell me now.”

  “We got an e-mail.” My mom used a spoon to retrieve the lime and squeezed it over her drink. She sat back as though this were a major announcement.

  “Um. Congratulations? You’re a little behind the rest of us, but it’s good you’re getting comfortable with tech—”

  “Oh, for godsakes.” My dad picked up the butter knife again. “Tell her from whom.”

  “Yes, from whom?” I leaned forward as I awaited their answer.

  My mom ignored me and sat up in her seat, her face brightening. “Ladies and gents, here he is.” She waved her arms as Dave approached the table.

  He bowed. “I’ll be here all night,” he said. “A funny thing happened on the way to the restaurant.”

  “Ba-dum dum,” said my mom.

  “Wow.” I’d been expecting Hamlet from act five, and Cary Grant had shown up, showered and shaved. “Nice suit.”

  He shot me a look, half smile, half warning.

  “It is a nice suit,” my mother agreed in all earnestness. “Very becoming.”

  Dave brushed off his shoulders, valet-style. “Thank you, madam. I try my best. Frank, did you get my e-mail?”

  “I did, thanks. I forwarded it on to Bill.”

  “How was work today?” My mom winked at Dave. “They let you out kind of early.”

  “It was fine,” said Dave. “No drama.”

  “I got you the ravioli.” I looked at Dave carefully, searching for a sign that he was the same guy who had frozen at the thought of this very gathering, but his face betrayed nothing. No flinching, no rapid blinking, no quick look to the left, or right, or whichever way it is that liars are supposed to look.

  “I love ravioli,” he said. “How is everyone?”

  “Fine,” I said. “They were just about to tell me about some big e-mail they got today.”

  “No, we weren’t.” As she spoke, my mom’s brow furrowed as though I had completely misunderstood her. “I was just going to ask what you two think about the West Indies for Thanksgiving.”

  “I prefer turkey,” said Dave.

  We all laughed a little too hard.

  “Right on the beach, complete with a yoga studio and a live-in cook!” She was crowing, as she usually did when discussing such spoils. That’s the thing about being invited to the Rich Party in middle age—apparently, you get thrilled every time you look in the goody bag.

  “No golf course?” Dave asked. I marveled at the casualness of Dave’s teasing little smile.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Who cares about golf?”

  “Would this be the prevailing attitude over the vacation, or would a guy be allowed to go play?” He was humoring her; we all were. Even in a normal world, he’d never take a vacation during the fourth quarter of the year, his busiest time.

  My mom laughed. “I’m sure there is a wonderful, world-class—who is the best golf course designer?”

  “Arnold Nicklaus,” I said, as Dave said, “Donald Ross.”

  “That”—Dave indulged me with an overly patient smile—“is not even a person.” His work phone rang and he reached into his pants pocket, glancing at it to see who it was. “Sorry—work. Please don’t wait if the food comes.”

  “Go, go.” My dad waved his hand. “By all means.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, I looked between them, back and forth. “What’s the big drama?”

  “We didn’t want to talk about the e-mail in front of Dave.”

  “So I gathered.”

  They both looked grim. “It’s from Sloane,” my mom said.

  My dad nodded. “Your sister,” he said helpfully, as though I had forgotten all about her in the two decades since I’d last seen her. And I had, largely, mostly because I was shushed anytime I mentioned her name.

  As part of my master’s program, we had been encouraged to discuss our motivation for becoming therapists. The most compelling explanation someone could give was that therapy had been and remained a powerful tool in his or her own life. I’d tried therapy once, and it had been a total disaster, so I had no idea how I found myself pursuing “the calling,” as one professor called it.

  My stock line was that I was interested in the “inner workings of people,” but it felt like a hollow rationale, as if I believed people could be tuned and wound like pocket watches, which I didn’t. I had once confessed this to Beth Fishman, my therapist during the first eighteen months of my program. I had also told Beth about Sloane.

  Counseling wasn’t mandatory for the students, but the program encouraged us to participate, so I’d copied Beth’s name from a creased list that the school receptionist had given me with the inspiring title of “Counselors within Ten Blocks of Campus.” I’d had a brief moment of hope that Beth’s late and bumbling arrival to our first meeting—the wet hair streaming down her blouse that left dark streaks on her sky blue silk blouse, the endless searching for her glasses in her bag—heralded an absentminded genius. It didn’t, as it turned out; she was just distracted.

  For the first seventeen months of my sessions, Beth and I chatted like buddies about television shows and our favorite restaurants. I’d regale her with my blind-dating stories, and she’d offer sympathy and incredulity the way my friends in relationships did, but that was about it. Then one morning, she rushed in five minutes late as was her norm, drip marks on her shirt, and announced, “I’m moving to Kansas City.”

  “What?” I said, completely taken aback.

  “Kansas City,” she repeated, and stuck out her tongue. Blech. “I don’t really want to go. My husband got a great job, though. I won’t even have to work.”

  It was the type of admission I had grown to expect from Beth Fishman, and even though I was technically her work, I was not offended. “I bet it’ll be nice when you get there.”

  “It’s probably a great place to raise kids, heartland values, the whole deal. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah. Anyway, you and I have three sessions left, and that’s it.”

  “Oh.” There was an intriguing new edge to Beth Fishman’s voice. “Okay.”

  “So let’s get to it,” she said. “When’s the last time you talked to your parents about your sister?”

  It was when I’d been home on break from college, having just completed a segment on substance abuse in my introductory psychology course. There had been some dry course reading about the physiology of addiction, with a few disturbing vignettes sprinkled in the materials.

  Then we watched the video about Alexis. Happy, sunny, adorable little Alexis, shown in home movies as a preschooler, her tights-clad legs pumping the air on her backyard swing set, and then as a seventh grader, impressed and clear-eyed on a cruise around the Statue of Liberty.

  Enter crystal meth. At the point when I got up to leave the lecture hall, Alexis was living in a cardboard box near a highway exit. I murmured excuse-me’s, sidestepped chair legs and tried not to glance at the movie projector screen. I did, though, when Alexis literally growled at the camera. She had crazy eyes, and her front tooth was missing. Her father calmly explained to the camera that it felt like she’d been possessed by a demon.

  I’d come home from school with so many questions. Maybe I should’ve waited, but I brought it up at our first family dinner, over my mom’s almond-crusted chicken. I posed them rapid-fire: Why did Sloane just disappear after rehab? Where was she now—did anyone know? Why weren’t we looking for her? I tried not to think about that one awful night, but sometimes it caught up to me in dreams, and wasn’t that type of thing always better discussed?

  I expected to hear that they’d been trying to protect me, which I understood. I would counter that I was now an adult, ready to hear details. We never got that far. My mother handled about seven minutes of questions before shutting herself in her bathroom. M
y father excused himself, albeit more politely, for the safety of his study.

  The next morning, my mom took me to the movies and then the mall, where she bought me the boots I’d been blabbering about for weeks. She did not hide the fact that she found them, knee-high and patent leather, as ugly as sin, but I accepted them and her silence on the Sloane topic without further question.

  Beth Fishman leaned so far forward during this that I was a little worried she’d topple over. When I finished, she tsked. “They handled that incredibly poorly.” I nodded. Beth Fishman was not afraid of making judgments. “But I like what you’re doing. You’re taking it back.”

  “Taking it back?”

  “It’s why you want to counsel people—to make sure they shed light on issues, rather than bury them.”

  I nodded. It was not a genius connection, but I’d been too close to make it myself. I wondered aloud if I should keep trying to talk to them about Sloane.

  “Blood from stone.” Beth Fishman shook her head so enthusiastically, a droplet of water from her still-dripping tresses landed on my lap. “I wouldn’t bother.”

  I felt compelled to offer Beth Fishman something in return for allowing me to be her last professional hurrah. When we said our good-byes, I mentioned offhand that I washed my hair at night when I thought I wouldn’t have enough time in the morning. It saved a lot of time.

  Even though I knew practically nothing about Sloane, I knew this: she was the reason why I couldn’t abide Dave’s silence about this suspension, the reason I spent my days trying to help people access and express their submerged thoughts in the name of family cohesion. Still, when my mom mentioned her name that night at the restaurant, I was stunned to hear someone else say it out loud. It had been so long. “And?”

  “She’s planning a visit.” The waiter slid a plate of fish in front of me, and I lifted my fork.